


Bringin' Home the Rain

by rocksafella



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Other, Smoking, eventual major injury and stuff, graphic depictions of autopsy/surgery, neutral or high honor au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocksafella/pseuds/rocksafella
Summary: title taken from a song by the Builders and the Butchers
Relationships: Dutch van der Linde/M Reader, John Marston/M Reader
Kudos: 25





	1. Bloodshot

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from a song by the Builders and the Butchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bloodshot, your eyes drop  
>  And the skin's all wearing thin,  
> There's nobody here to tell you the depth of the water  
> or the trouble that you're in_

Initially it’s something that happens by circumstance. 

Your office sits pretty in Saint Denis, an amalgamation of your life long achievements. Having your own practice at just shy of thirty years old isn’t a world record or anything but it is considered abnormal, being skilled so young. The other practictioner a few blocks over has to be edging into his fifties, absolutely ancient.

The doors are a solid mahogany, dark wood stained darker with perfect little square windows that you are sure to wipe down often, the dust from the street covering them by the the end of the day- sometimes even by dinner. The rest of the windows are stained glass, simple plant shapes, your own idea meant to preserve as much of people’s privacy as you can. Other than that, the space you’re renting has stayed more or less the same- a few bare shelf units against the walls which have remained a charming yellow, the reception desk and curiosity cabinet behind it, which was kindly gifted to you from the previous tenant. 

Business isn’t quite booming yet, but you have a feeling it’ll get there.

***

You’re on your way home, having just picked up your order of tinctures and cure-alls when it happens or more accurately, when they happen. 

One moment you’re riding peacefully, giving Periwinkle an affectionate pat on the neck and the next there’s a rope securing your arms to your sides and you’re being yanked right off of your saddle. Periwinkle predictably carries on for a moment before even realizing you’re gone, although you’re too busy having the wind knocked out of you. 

You hit the dirt flat with a pained wheeze, struggling hard against the rope cinched around you until a booted foot pushes you belly-down into the dust. Oh, Christ almighty, you’re going to die. 

“You a doctor, son?” Nobody should sound so casual, not at a time like this. More importantly, what kind of question is that? 

“Y-yes, I am.” You hate that your voice shakes- it isn’t enough that you’re kind of petite, a little on the flimsy side, you also have to be terrified of nearly everything. It’s not your fault you happen to be one of the last people on this green Earth with any sense of mortality. The boot continues to hold you down and with the sun the way it is, you can only see two dark silhouettes out of the corner of your eye, no defining features. “I-if you’re looking for supplies, there’s some in my cart and saddle bag, please- help yourself.” You swallow shallowly. 

There’s a beat of silence where you assume a nonverbal conversation is happening. The boot lifts off your back and a hand closes around the back of your neck instead, though you count it as a step in the right direction. “Oils and herb juice ain’t gonna help us here, you know how to sew things back together? Proper-ways, not like a dress or summin’” 

This voice is raspy, soft, and the hold they have on you is the same. You reign your terrified brain in long enough to nod. “I’m a surgeon, best in my class, I’d s-show you the papers but-”

“That’s good enough, son.” Comes the other’s worryingly calm voice and suddenly you’re being hauled to your feet. You blink dust from your eyes, a tear or two falling off your chin as the grit is washed out.

Face to face, you can’t say you aren’t surprised to see who those voices belong to. One is shorter, though taller than you and if it weren’t for the ring on his pinky and the gold tooth you can see when he talks to his companion, you could almost see this man being a resident of Saint Denis. His companion is not so.. upstanding, however. His hair is long, a messy wash of dark chestnut in comparison to his companion’s curly ink black hair that peeks out at the nape of his neck when he turns to regard Periwinkle. 

“Mister Marston, you take our associate here and see to Mister Morgan.” A frown crosses your features before it all slots into place- outlaws can’t exactly ride into town to see a doctor. Good Lord,  _ outlaws  _ indeed. 

“P- please make sure my horse and cart are somewhere safe.” You blurt, earning strange looks from the two. They nod, however, and you feel your shoulders fall in relief. Some crazy part of you worried they’d simply kill your horse, for whatever reason. 

“You can take that rope off ‘im, John.” Comes the dismissive reply, and suddenly you’re free from your bonds- although not entirely, because as  _ John  _ hauls you onto the back of his horse you take in the sheer amount of weaponry attached to both him and his animal. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, apparently. 

******

Marston takes you far from home, literally. You’re lost in your own head most of the ride, asking yourself how it got to this, what in God’s name you could have done to deserve this, et-cetera. 

He has the sense to have taken your bag of supplies, the one you bring to house calls. How he knew it was the most useful you don’t know- you have a theory he may have just guessed. Considering it won’t open without your key, you’re pretty sure he guessed.

You ride for longer than you’re comfortable with, Marston’s horse puffing like a train engine. His saddle isn’t soft like yours, doesn’t have the extra blanket over it, so your ass hurts in a way that makes you certain you’ve bruised the bone. 

Finally you come to a small meadow with a dilapitated looking house at the very back peeking out of the woods like a predator. Marston slows his horse into a short run and when you make it to the hitching post, he helps you down with a gentleness he shouldn’t possess. 

Inside is slightly better than outside. There’s a dusty rug and a door to one side you assume leads to a bedroom, as well as another door to the back porch. There’s a small wood stove near a large oak table, the latter with a deck of cards and various personal items strewn over it’s surface.

“Arthur!” Marston squeezes through the doorway past you, apparently fed up with your observing. He lets himself into the adjacent bedroom and you don’t follow, hoping he knows at this point that you aren’t going anywhere. A quiet conversation picks up, filtering out of the crack in the door left by Marston. You cross the threshold, hoping he’s occupied for a while. 

The room is bare save for the stove, table and rug. There are some wall shelves but they hold nothing. The pot on top of the stove is worn but when you cross the small room to stand by the stove it’s still warm, which suggests the pot belongs to these three men. When you find that the pot is  _ clean  _ you can’t help but hum a laugh- either they’re hungry or one of them actually cares about hygiene. 

“Doc! C’mere.” You sigh, abandoning your peering at the items on the table, wishing you’d looked on it first. There was a small smudged picture that seems interesting, as well as a small finely bound journal. You’ll have to try and come back to those. 

You abandon your snooping and trail into the bedroom, opening the door carefully so they aren’t surprised. You’re greeted with two anxious faces, Marston kneeling by the bedside with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, the latter looking pale and pained. Your medical bag has been wrenched open and you wrinkle your nose, unimpressed. 

John must see you looking at it because he seems sheepish suddenly, one hand disappearing under his hair to rub at the flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, doc. Might have broken your lock.” You sigh and add it to the list of things you’ll need repaired. It seems he tried to use some gauze to wipe away some of the blood on Arthur’s face, if the red smudges are anything to go by. 

“I’ll need you to boil some water for a few minutes, as much as you can.” You let your training take over, rolling your sleeves up until they’re trapped above your elbows. You know your hands aren’t the cleanest but it’s probably less dangerous for you to touch Arthur’s wounds than anyone else. You replace Marston at Arthur’s side and begin assessing, taking in the bullet graze high on his cheek and the blue tint in his lips.

“We uh, only have the one pot.” John says as he stands, making to leave you alone with Arthur, although the idea seems to make him hesitant. “Should I find something bigger?” He asks. 

You shake your head, knowing time is of the essence. “If that’s all you have then fine, just make short work of as many pots as you can. I saw a metal basin outside, once you’ve boiled me about three pots, start dividing pots between me and the basin.” You know they’ll need clean water later. 

Arthur seems too weak to stop you from lifting his heavy hand, gently seperating from his skin the rags the’ve been using as bandages, tossing them toward Marston’s general direction. “And get rid of these! Burn them.” He seems to take the hint and picks up the pace, leaving you to Arthur. The man’s eyes are closed and he clearly hasn’t bathed in some time, as cowboys are prone to doing. His hair is a bit long but it won’t get in your way. 

“Hello, mister Morgan, I’m doctor Moyniham. I’m going to take a look at your wound here, if that’s alright.” 

You take a pair of clamps and a small wad of gauze from your bag, dousing it in iodine and beginning the long process of soaking away all the clotted, dried blood. Eventually the wound reveals itself, a large tear going right through a sizeable portion of Arthur’s muscle. You bring your face close, smelling carefully, eyes closing to concentrate and- good. All you can smell is iron, meaning it’s just blood and no bile. Arthur’s organs are in tact, meaning all you truly have to do is stitch everything together. 

You busy yourself with cleaning Arthur up some, noting that the blood has slowed from what you assume was an alarming gush. It trickles out of the wound lazily, further soaking the hay mattress underneath him. You chew your lip, wondering if you might have to sew an artery closed.

John suddenly appears again with warm damp cloths which appear mostly clean and you’re suddenly grateful he’s here at all. He doesn’t pester you or get in the way either which you’re also thankful for. 

Arthur doesn’t fuss when you begin your work, pulling the skin together slowly, throwing way more stitches than is likely necessary. You just have a feeling that it’s better to be safe than sorry.

***

It takes a few hours of carefully laying stitch over stitch, long enough that the shaft of light from the small square window has crossed the room and the moon has replaced it by the time you’re done. Various rust coloured cloths and bunches of used gauze sit around you. 

When you’re finally done Arthur’s side looks more or less like it never took a shotgun shell at close range, save for the twisting railroad of stitches holding him together. The ones inside him are made of gut and sinew, with the hope that his body will simply heal around them. You’re running on fumes and the skin of your teeth at this point, blood soaked into the front of your shirt, your hair a mess. 

When you open the door, you’re greeted with two equally tense faces. Marston seems a little more prepared to see you but his friend visibly clenches his jaw. You had no idea his friend had arrived back home, and he sits there watching you under his hat with a cigar held delicately in one hand. 

“So,” you start, uselessly wiping your palms on the front of your bloody shirt. “Your compatriot, Arthur, suffered a gut wound that included a few major muscle groups as well as an artery and major vein, but it missed his digestive tract.” Your announcement is met with even more tension as well as blank stares. You want to kick yourself for having such lackluster bedside manner. 

“Which is to say, as long as he can hold on over the night, he should be okay.” You simplify, further trying to uselessly wipe your hands clean. “Your biggest worry now is infection, which is why I had mister Marston save some boiled water in that basin.” 

Marston’s shoulders immediately drop. His friend’s expression slides into a more neutral tone and you take both as a good sign. You stand there awkwardly for a moment, picking at something squishy under your nail, when Marston stands. “Can I see him?” He asks, and you have to think for a second before you nod hesitantly. 

“Yes, as long as you don’t touch anything.” 

That seems to satisfy him and you step aside to let the man pass. The door shuts and suddenly you’re left with the only technical stranger in the house. 

“You’re free to wash up if you’d like, son.” His voice is careful, like he’s not sure how to approach you. There’s that word again:  _ son. _ You face him properly, acutely aware that you’re covered in his companion’s blood. And if said companion dies, this mostly respectful man may decide to blame you. Nobody would find your body, you’d likely be a missing case forever- 

You stop holding your breath. 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” You accept his offer. This seems to please him and he takes a few hearty puffs off his cigar before stubbing it out on a small terracotta ash tray. 

“It’ll have to be in the creek just a minute’s walk behind the house, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to take a lantern and your mare with you.” He crosses the room and plucks a tall skinny lantern from the window’s edge, placing it as well as a rather nice looking towel and some little bottles you recognize as the rather expensive soaps you can never justify purchasing for yourself. There’s even a set of clean clothes. Where they got these things, you don’t want to know. 

“You’re not.. keeping me?” You ask, a little worried this is some big test. Suddenly the man laughs, a chest-deep guffaw that makes the tips of your ears hot. “I guess I can’t blame you for thinkin’ that.” He says, sounding apologetic. 

“No, son, we aren’t keeping you, despite our introductions.” He makes a sweeping motion with his hands, a small but grand gesture. “Mason Owen, consider me in your debt. Were it not for the urgency of the situation, we wouldn’t have had to pull you off your mount so offensively.” 

You stifle a childish huff and shake your head, moving to gather the items he’s offered you. That name is as fake as the so called ‘Venitian’ architecture in St. Denis. Owen’s face also seems oddly familiar, in a way that makes you certain you must have passed each other on the street sometime, or at least on the road. “I’ve had worse, mister Owen.” As long as something good came of the day, you suppose it doesn’t matter. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy to have helped.” 

You almost offer your hand but think better of it. You’ll make a proper introduction when you aren’t covered in slowly drying blood. Owen notices and laughs, ushering you outside. 

***

The water is freezing, but you appreciate it anyway. Periwinkle loves it, the water lazily lapping at her belly as she nibbles on a small group of riverbed greens. If you didn’t know any better, it almost seems like she’d missed you. 

When the water stops running rusty behind you, you deem yourself clean enough. A little creek isn’t going to do the same job as your lovely basin at home but it’s certainly better than being caked in blood. It helps that the soaps mister Owen lended you smell divine. 

Briefly, you wonder how your life wound up like this. If you still spoke to him, your father would have much to say about it all, and the thought makes you sour. He’d cuff you up one ear over the fact that you haven’t demanded payment from these ruffians, nor have you threatened them with the authorities- then he’d cuff you up the other for being so polite about it all.  _ Always a pushover. _

It’s funny, the way the two of you butted heads over this one thing. When you’d decided to become a general surgeon, he’d been so excited- until you’d mentioned that it was to  _ help others _ instead of  _ make lots of money _ . 

Fortunately, a whole ocean separates you two now. Hopefully, it’ll divide you forever. 

You’re torn away from your thoughts when Periwinkle’s head suddenly raises, your only warning before the bushes behind you rustle. 

You wade deeper into the water, covering yourself as much as possible, ignoring the feeling of river plants brushing your delicates. 

It turns out to be mister Marston, and the flush that blooms across his face in the lantern light tells you he thought you’d be dressed. 

“Shit! Sorry!” He turns around entirely, hands on his hips. You puff a laugh and wade toward the shore, Periwinkle beating you there in a few long strides. 

“It’s alright mister Marston, although I would appreciate it if you continued averting your eyes for a moment longer.” 

He nods and mumbles a  _ you betcha _ , letting you dress at your leisure. You try and slick most of the water off before stepping into your fresh clothes and these… these must be Marston’s. The corduroys have had their waistband altered for someone a little thinner than you, although they sit comfortably just above your natural waist. The shirt is missing two buttons, as well as the ones on the sleeves, so you do your best to tuck it in appropriately. 

“Alright, I’m decent.” 

Marston turns around and his flush is still fixed to his face. You find it charming, considering he must be used to seeing folks in states of undress. Perhaps he finds you pretty-  _ ha _ . You like to amuse yourself. 

“I’m uh, again, I’m real sorry.” He mumbles, looking very much so like a scolded child. “It’s alright, no harm done. Did you need something?” 

He seems to calm down with that, reassured. One of his shoes scuffs at the ground and you watch him, slowly fixing your rings back on your hands now that both are clean. Whatever he wants to say, it’s troubling him. You can see it in the way Marston has those permanent frown lines, only deepening as he stands there. 

“It was my fault. The wound, it happened cause I weren’t paying attention.” 

You blink at him, taking in the sheepish way his hands find his pockets, shoulders coming forward to make him look like a blackbird sitting on a wire. Even without his hat Marston’s face is shadowed, obscured by his hair. 

“I won’t get into specifics, but uh, things got hairy during a  _ discussion  _ with some other folks. One thing got another started and uh, Arthur got me out of the way, took most of the shot.” 

You nod, understanding his demeanor. Guilt, in your experience, is often worse than a ball and chain. 

“Mister Marston, whatever the circumstances, I believe it’s safe to assume that Arthur knew what he was doing.” You give yourself a pat on the back when that seems to soothe Marston’s frown lines a little. 

“I’m just real lucky we saw you. I’m uh, sorry we met like that. Yanked you off your horse cause well, we was runnin’ outta time.” 

You roll your eyes, hoping he doesn’t see it in the low lantern light. Although the circumstances were unpleasant, it isn’t like you didn’t practice medicine today. More than anything, you care about that, payment is just a bonus. 

“Well, next time you need something I would ask that you please find me at my office. I’ll even write the address down for you.” 

……

You end up staying the night even though it seems like they would likely let you go. It’s mostly for your own peace of mind, your brain hardwired to care for a patient as closely as possible for as long as you can. 

Marston and Owen sleep soundly on bedrolls by the woodstove, the fire inside of it keeping the house comfortably warm. 

You don’t sleep much, never have. Not the way most people do anyway. You’ve always done better catching little naps instead of trying to force yourself to sleep for a solid handful of hours. 

Instead of sleeping, you commit a little crime. You read the journal that’s been practically seducing you all night. 

It’s interesting, to say the least. You initially can’t decide which man it belongs to until you find a few drawings of Marston and Owen, some other people too, ones you don’t recognize. 

There’s a lot of art in here, as well as a list detailing their income and who contributed. It’s been erased and rewritten before, which makes you think it must be up to date. 

Eventually you’re satisfied and you close the little book, wrapping it the same way it had been and placing it exactly how you found it. 

You don’t mean to fall asleep but you drift off. You’re awoken by the sounds of cooking, wood being piled on the fire inside the stove. You enjoy it for a moment, the sounds of other people, eyes closed with your head pillowed on your arms. 

“Hey, Doc, we made you some coffee.” 

Marston’s gentle voice accompanied with the broad hand on your shoulder blade makes your heart flutter. You decide firmly that it’s just because you were surprised. 

“Thank you kindly, mister Marston.” You sit up slowly, yawning and leaning over the back of your chair until your spine pops loudly. Marston places the little metal cup in front of you and returns to the stove, stirring something in their little pot. You sip gingerly at your coffee and watch him, tracking the littlest of things. 

Owen comes in from outdoors, a bucket in hand, tossing an empty cloth bag beside the doorway along with the bucket. He must have been feeding and watering the animals, if Marston is doing the cooking. 

“I’m going to check on Arthur.” You take your cup with you and kindly ignore the way both men track your journey to the adjacent bedroom.

You let yourself in to find Arthur awake, a well read book in one hand, the cover too faded to read. “Mornin’.” He greets you kindly, laying the book down on his chest. His face, although still a bit pale, has much more colour in it than it did yesterday. 

“Good morning, Arthur, may I….?” You gesture to your own side, mimicking the wound site. Arthur nods, although his face twists in a way that makes you sure this must be an uncomfortable affair and not just because it’s painful. 

You set your coffee down on the side table, thankful for it and the warmth it’s lended to your hands. Carefully, you lean over him, one knee bracing on the side of the bed for better stability. You peel the bandages away from his side, stopping when a few of them catch, likely because the blood dried to the sutures. Everything you can see looks normal, a little swollen but otherwise on the mend. 

“How’mi lookin’?” He asks, voice still thick. You wouldn’t be surprised if one of the other two had given him some poppy tea while you were asleep. 

You lay the bandages back down and give Arthur’s stomach a fond pat, careful of any bruises. “I think you’ll live, Arthur.” You give him your best  _ I’m a wonderful, kind pillar of safety _ smile and he seems to accept that. 

You don’t expect him to hold a hand out, expectantly. “I never got your name, Doc.” 

For a moment you debate giving him a fake name. Marston and Owen don’t know your name either, they have no idea the name on the medical bottles is yours. You slide your hand into his and ignore the difference, his rough skin and thick fingers an interesting contrast against your delicate digits and smooth palms. 

“Liam Moyniham, I’m glad I was able to help.” 

The grin that splits his face is sleepy and kind. You want to strangle the butterflies in your stomach. 

“I’m afraid I do have to return to my practice but em, one moment,” You hunt around for paper, a pencil, and find the only source of either to be Arthur’s journal placed on the bedside table. “May I?” 

He nods and you open the book carefully, as if you hadn’t been reading it not so long ago. You find an empty page and write your information down,  _ Dr. L. Moyniham, 14th street West St. Denis,  _ and pick it up to show him. “You can find me here, if you ever need to. You’ll know which unit is mine, don’t worry. If I’m not home, you can leave a note under the door and I’ll do my best to assist you.” 

Arthur nods again and you place his journal back on the table, carefully bound with it’s leather cord. 

You bid him a kind farewell after habitually checking him over one more time, satisfied with your suture work. With how carefully Marston and Owen watch you exit the bedroom, you’re certain he’ll be well taken care of. 

“Clean and redress the wound daily, a few times a day if you can.” You start, placing your empty coffee cup beside the stove. “If he becomes infected, you’ll have to drain the wound hourly. If it won’t go away, find me in town.” 

They both nod surely and for a moment the three of you all sit there, you clenching your hands together anxiously while they regard you carefully. Owen stands and for the first time you realize he’s missing his hat and vest, likely having not put them on for the day just yet. He’s strangely handsome, nose crooked in a subtle way that tells you he cares about his appearance, has had someone set it back proper when it’s broken, if the carefully manicured facial hair wasn’t enough of a giveaway already. 

“I can’t thank you enough, truly. Without you, our Arthur might have met a worse fate than stitches.” He offers you his hand and you shake it kindly and standing so close, you can smell the cigars he smokes. You can see little scars here and there, one on the very edge of his lip from what you assume was a very nasty left hook. 

“It was nothing, truly, I’m happy to help” 

Owen gives you the first genuine smile you’ve seen out of him and you match it, the corners of your eyes crinkling a little. He and Marston help you outside, Marston strapping your now broken medical bag down, securing it tightly to your saddle. Owen helps you onto Periwinkle like one might help a lady, hand out for you to use as a support, and you ignore how it makes your heart flip. 

“Remember, clean that wound  _ well _ and if there’s any sign of infection at all, come find me.” The both of them nod as you nudge Periwinkle forward. “Don’t use anything but soap and water and be very gentle!” 

They both nod again and you offer them a goodbye, pushing Periwinkle into a jog. You don’t look over your shoulder until you’re almost to the trees on the other side of the clearing and when you do, you can only spot Owen still standing outside the small house, the vague shape of him puffing away at a cigar. He lifts one hand and gives you a short wave and you return it, watching him disappear into the house. 

You make your way back home, the tall St. Denis buildings cresting the horizon just after the sun has dipped below it.

***** 

It isn’t until the next day that you see the wanted posters and realize why Owen’s face seemed so familiar. 

After your morning of shopping, replenishing your lost supplies, you dutifully make your way a few streets down to the constable’s office. You pay your security deposit as you have for the last year or so, on time and in full. 

On the offhand chance that someone has posted an ad selling a cart, considering yours was nowhere to be found when you passed the area where Owen and Marston caught you, you decide to glance over the little poster board on the far wall. 

You stand in front of the yellowed bounty poster for what feels like ages, gripping the strap of your satchel as if it will protect you. The name reads  _ Dutch Van der Linde _ and the face is as charming as you remember, down to the gentle curve of his nose to the little beauty mark high on his cheekbone. Beside him is Arthur’s face, although a little younger perhaps, an outdated sketch. 

You force yourself into a neutral expression and politely bid the officers a good day on your way out.

Mason Owen  _ indeed _ . You stifle your anxiety the whole way home, heart thudding in your throat even as you climb the stairs to your apartment above your office. 

Locking both doors as well as the windows does nothing for you. Not even shutting the curtains and climbing under all your covers makes you feel safe. 

After a few minutes of laying there in the soft dark of your undercovers, your heart calms. If these people, if this man had wanted to hurt you, you would be dead. They would have followed you home or simply killed you there in the cabin. 

The next few days you remind yourself of that. Even if every time the little bell above your doorway rings, you feel your heart clench almost painfully, a moment or two’s hesitation before you turn and greet your new patient. 


	2. Diving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You're dancin' with your demons baby  
>  You forgot your former life  
> And it was hard swimmin' once  
> And now you're daily divin' in_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back by unpopular demand: this self indulgent oc/canon fiasco! warnings for depictions of injury!

It’s just about a month until you’re reminded of your encounter with mister  _ Owen _ and company. 

That means for almost four weeks, you’ve spent every other day glancing over your shoulder. Buying newspapers just to see if there’s any familiar faces on the front page.

Despite trying to be prepared for them, you come downstairs before the sun has even risen over the city to find a very intimidating blonde woman darkening your doorstep. 

_ Fantastic. _

“Good morning, miss, may I-  _ oh,”  _ You nearly jump out of your skin when she turns her face. A rather painful looking laceration spans the space between her cheekbone and the end of her eyebrow, the blood having long since run down into her collar. “It’s  _ missus _ .” 

She lets herself in and you shut and, as a second thought, lock the door behind her. “May I?” She asks, gesturing to the cushy patient’s chair. You nod and she takes her seat, calm as ever, looking at you with her eyebrow raised which, to your distaste, causes the wound to drivel more. 

“May I ask how you managed that?” You busy yourself, gathering a vial of anesthetic and the appropriate needle. When you turn around her mouth twitches and you stop, midway through readying the appropriate dose. “You may  _ not _ , to yer question and to.. that. Just stitch me up.” 

The look on her face suggests she won’t be persuaded otherwise. You place the needle and vial down on your metal discard tray although they aren't technically dirty. 

Instead you pull out a line of thin twine and a curved needle from a little drawer, aware of her eyes on you the whole time. 

When you get close enough again, her hand comes out, a little paper pinched between two fingers. “Arthur sent me. Name’s missus Adler.” Ah, formality. You pluck the paper from her hand and also place it in the discard tray, seeing as they can clearly find you alright. “Happy to make your acquaintance,  _ missus _ Adler. Are you certain you’re alright without numbing?” 

She gives you a flat-lipped stare that makes you swallow harshly. It’s the same brand of off-putting that Van der Linde man had. “Alright, then. Please tell me if you’d like a break.” 

****

She does not need a break. The stitches take you almost an hour due to your attention to detail and the amount of dried gummy blood in the way, but in the end you’re satisfied. 

Adler looks in the hand mirror you provided her with and the corners of her eyes crinkle just enough to let you know she’s pleasantly surprised. “How much?” 

It takes you a moment to realize she’s asking to pay you. 

“Oh I um, well.” You gather everything and place it in the discard tray to be dealt with after. You honestly didn’t think she would offer. “Ten? If that’s alright.” 

It’s far less than what she really ‘owes’ you but it’s really not a big deal. Your regular patrons will more than cover the cost, in time. 

She gives you a funny look but otherwise doesn’t seem to mind. She pulls crumpled bills from various pockets on her outfit until she makes ten notes which you accept without hesitation. “Thank you, Doc, I’ll be sure to put in a good word.” She says kindly. You unlock and open your door for her, getting a very cowpokeish hat tip in return. 

It’s not until later when you’re sweeping the floor that evening that you wonder what  _ put in a good word _ actually means. 

****

A day and a half after that, you see a familiar hat making its way through the market crowd toward you. 

You don’t startle when John’s spindly fingers close on your shoulder. “Good afternoon, mister Marston.” 

John makes an acknowledging  _ hrumph _ and is apparently content to escort you the rest of the way through the market. He lights a cigarette and the smell wards off anybody who was standing too close, polite folk not too fond of the harsh stench. When you’re done, John still follows at heel until you’re a few streets down, then he closes a hand around your wrist and pulls you into someone’s well shaded back garden.

“Here, since I broke yours.” He wrestles an almost duplicate version of your traveling bag from his satchel, except this one is much newer of course. It’s a bit smaller, clearly made with an eye for detail. 

John allows you to inspect it carefully, opening the clasps and checking the inside, noting how soft the leather was, how high quality the interior fabric felt. He doesn’t press you for a reaction but you can see him waiting for it, can see the way he rocks from toe to heel ever so gently as he watches you. 

“This is much nicer than the one you broke, thank you for replacing it. It’s very kind of you.” 

John’s face breaks into this charmingly lopsided smile, the scars on one side pulling his skin taut in a way that’s more endearing than it should be. He ducks his head a bit, hiding under the brim of his hat. His scars are oddly charming. You wonder where he got them from.

“It weren’t my idea, actually. Dutch sent it for you. I’m just the delivery boy.” 

You can tell it pleases him regardless of if he gets credit or not. For some reason it’s adorable, the idea that he gets second hand satisfaction from just this. 

“Well, tell him I’m very grateful. Your friends, mister Morgan and missus Adler, how are they?”

When you move to step toward the next garden gate, John follows you dutifully. He tells you about Arthur’s wound and you feel strange relief knowing that it’s began to scab and heal properly. John hasn’t seen Missus Adler in a day or so, but tells you she’s likely just fine. 

The two of you escape the confusing maze of back gardens and patios and stroll into the street. St. Denis is quiet on Sundays, most folks in church, working or attending to business. John walks you home in a way that is very gentlemanly and you like how it makes you feel safe, taken care of. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You offer habitually, politely, the way your mother taught you. John flushes and ducks away from you, rubbing the back of his neck in a bashful way. “No thanks,” He mumbles, “got work to do for Dutch anyhow, just wanted to catch you an’ drop that off. Evenin’, Moyniham.” 

You give him a kindly wave and watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears. When you get into your apartment, you fix yourself a little meal, just something simple, and sit down with the biological atlas you’ve yet to get more than a few pages into. 

Later, before you go to bed, you’re putting your new bag away in it’s proper cupboard when a note slips out of one of it’s inside pockets. You pick it up and tuck the bag away, shutting the cupboard door and staring at the little folded piece of paper with a sudden wave of palpitations. You unfold it carefully, scared of what you might find. 

_ Mr. Moyniham,  _

_ My apologies again for the circumstances of our introduction. Were it not for the urgency of the situation perhaps we could have made a proper appointment. This bag won’t make up for it all, but John mentioned you were in need of a new case for your miscellaneous medical supplies. _

_ -DVL _

You stare at the words for a while, looking for any sort of hidden meaning. In the end you just find yourself admiring his penmanship, considering you assumed the majority of them to be mostly illiterate.

With a strange feeling, you realize you have no way to respond to his gesture. Unless one of his gang appears in your office again, them being your only means of communicating with this  _ Van der Linde _ .

You decide to pen him a letter and you put it by the door, just to be sure it reaches him by whoever’s hands happen to walk through your door next.

****

Although what you’re doing is socially shameful, demonized even, it is a necessary learning tool. Besides that, you think the  _ taboo _ aspect of it all is childish. Then again, you never did flinch when your childhood cat dismembered rabbits on your doorstep, greedily gnawing on their bones. 

The ride to and from the little wooden shack (because really, what else could you call it) takes an hour and a half. You refuse to buy this sort of thing anywhere near town, especially after  _ last time _ . 

In your defense, you didn’t know anybody saw. 

When you get back to Saint Denis, you stable Periwinkle and lug your spoils home. It’s late enough that nobody will notice a well dressed young man huffing and puffing his way up the street with a suspiciously covered cart. You can’t fit the cart through the doorway into your back garden, so you’re forced to simply leave it outside your front door and struggle the rest of the way entirely on your own man power. 

Fifteen minutes of fighting with giant iron nails, splintery pine wood and a thorough hand washing later and it’s all very much so worth it. 

The young man laid out on your table hasn’t been dead more than a day. He’s discolouring now, his limbs stiff, all the blood settled to the bottom of him causing deep indigo bruises. If it weren’t for all that as well as the gunshot wound having taken a large bite from his hip, you might think he was asleep. 

You didn’t ask much about him, not who he belonged to or what happened. 

As you pull your soft leather gloves on, you don’t wonder about any of it. You tie your apron in place and put everything else out of your mind, looking down over the man as if he were just a collection of different parts, a slab of meat. You’re more concerned with your tools, the sharpness of your blade than any life he might have had. 

The man’s skin cuts nothing like any frog or mouse, a satisfying first  _ pop _ when you push your scalpel into his chest and a feeling like tearing paper as you drag it down toward the navel. 

You find pieces of wood in his abdomen and you stare at them for a long moment, mildly disturbed at how easily projectiles force their way into human bodies. You’ve never seen somebody take a bullet but you’ve seen enough dead bodies to know what guns do. Sometimes it isn’t even the bullet that kills a person, you’ve found glass lodged behind their eyes before, pieces of terracotta somehow travelling into hearts. How it all gets there is beyond you. 

You dig a little deeper, finding black lungs, little florets of white dead tissue dotting the surface. You set those aside carefully along with the man’s heart for later examination. Perhaps you’ll pick up some formalin and preserve them, considering it’s rare you get to see tissue so damaged in someone so young.

Further in, everything is a typical mottled pink, no further internal damage you can see- at least not here. You take out each organ, placing them on the same metal tray as the lungs until his body cavity is empty. For a few moments you find yourself unable to move on, staring into the strawberry abyss of the man’s empty body hardly blinking as you gently poke at a large gelatinous clump of clotted blood. 

Eventually you tear yourself away from your fixation and move on to the real fun. Picking through it gently, you catalogue all the damage spread across the man’s hip. You find shrapnel, fine pieces of whatever was in the shell that destroyed his hip. The flesh is more ruined than you initially thought, the damage is bad to the extent that even the bone has been touched, flecks of white peeking out from deep within the wound. If he didn’t die from the direct impact then he surely died from the shock and blood loss, which you’re sure was immense. 

The sun is beginning to rise, little shafts of light crossing you and the body. You don’t notice at all. You’re bent over your subject until you feel like passing out and only then do you realize you’ve skipped breakfast, lunch and arguably dinner. When you straighten your back it hurts, your hands aching in pulses from the center of your palm all the way out to each finger tip, grooves from your scalpel etched into the bend of your middle finger. 

Every piece from the shotgun shell, every little bit of debris and bone as well as each organ are all laid out on the metal tray beside you. Your cadaver sits empty, picked clean, skull cap resting just beside his open chest.

Your eyes feel like they’ve been burned when you shut them, scrunching them closed until tears gather at the corners. It feels good to sit like that for a moment, leaned back in your chair until you feel the vertebrae in your lower back slot into place.

  
  


Unfortunately, clean up is never as interesting as the act itself. 

  
  
  


****

It probably isn’t coincidental that soon after your autopsy, you run into Arthur and two men you don’t recognize, the three of them trying very hard to look innocent while clearly skulking down the street from your office. 

You take a little joy in being able to surprise them. 

“Evening,  _ gentlemen _ , were you waiting for me?” You come up from the alley behind them and that must have it’s desired effect, because the sharp turn they all do combined with the fact that Arthur nearly pulls a gun on you makes it seem that way. 

“ _ Christ. _ ” The one to Arthur’s left spits the word almost as venomously as he glares at you. He’s tall but has the posture of a tree struck by lightning. A bit thinner than Arthur, less bulky, although he hides it under a scuffed duster. 

The man to Arthur’s right reminds you of some of your mentors and professors. Short silvering hair, clean vest, shirt nicely rolled at the elbows. Unlike Dutch, he lacks the glamour of any jewelry, no rings or gaudy vest chains.

“Shit, Doc, don’t sneak up on armed men.” Arthur looks like you genuinely spooked him and you stifle the urge to be a  _ wisenheimer  _ about it. You’re well aware that these cowboys prefer to see scholars as demure, a contrast to their own brazen tendencies. 

“My apologies, gentlemen, I didn’t think I’d catch you so off guard.” You hum, switching your bag from one hand to another. It isn’t heavy, but you’ve already made four house calls and it isn’t even time for lunch. “Could I help you with something? We could step into my office.”

You watch them consider it wordlessly, a brief look passing between them. “Yes, please, that would be very nice.” The older gentleman to Arthur’s right moves to the side, allowing you to pass the three of them, bowing your head kindly. You feel them follow you, allowing yourself one small amused smile. 

Like well trained hounds, the three of them wait patiently as you unlock the door, letting yourself in and holding it open for the three of them. 

“Coat hangers to your left, gentlemen, if you’d like. Could I get you anything to drink?” 

The three of them kindly refuse and you let them wander as you put your things away. Tonics and such carefully tucked away in a hutch, gauze and some new tools hidden away in their proper places. 

The older gentleman eventually finds his way over to you and you let him occupy your space, unafraid of a watchful eye. You catch him looking at the jar on your desk so you pick it up carefully and hold it out to him.

“Forgive me, I’ve forgotten to introduce us.” he hums, taking the jar with mild hesitation. “Hosea Matthews, if you’d please. That gentleman over there is mister Micah Bell, and you already know Arthur.” 

Hosea turns the jar around in his hands carefully, regarding its contents with mild disgust. You step to his side, bringing a hand up to point. “Liam Moyniham, pleasure to meet you both. Have you ever seen hydrocephaly in an animal before?”

Micah and Arthur seem to pick their way toward you, Arthur now looking at the jar with the same morbid curiosity written on Hosea’s face. Micah pretends not to care, squinting at the shelves and their contents, but you can see the minute tilt of his head as he listens. 

“Hydrocephaly or hydrocephalus is a complicated way to say  _ water on the brain _ .” You explain. Hosea hands you the jar and you take it carefully, the tiny kitten inside bobbing with the motion. You turn the jar so both men can see the enlarged skull, holding it out for them as you speak. “I won’t bore you with the technicalities, but in essence, with so much fluid inside the skull, the brain can’t function properly. This creature was lucky enough to die before it could breathe it’s first breath, although that isn’t always the case.” 

You place the jar back on your desk, taking in Arthur’s undisguised disgust and Hosea’s intrige. “Ain’t nature just.. wonderful?” Arthur swallows uncomfortably, causing Hosea to chuckle in a way that makes you fond of him already. “That she is, mister Morgan.”

“We ain’t here for a lesson, boys.” Micah finally speaks, although he doesn’t even turn toward the three of you, arms still clasped at his back, eyes still narrowed as he tries to read the label of a tincture through the glass of your cabinet. You school your features, knowing your tendency to wear your disapproval for others plainly on your face. You already don’t like Micah, his demeanour making your hackles rise. Arthur coughs nervously, as if sensing the change in your attitude.

Hosea must be used to Micah having that effect on others, however, because he takes a careful seat on the edge of your desk and motions for Arthur to do the same. You wonder if he does it so the two of them aren’t looming over you any more.

“Rude as he is, Micah is telling the truth. This isn’t a friendly visit, I’m afraid.” 

You lean your weight on one hip, arms crossing over your chest carefully. “Alright, then. Why are you here?”

Arthur looks at Hosea, who makes a  _ go ahead _ motion, and you fix your attention on the blonde sharply. “We know you’ve been uh..  _ Repurposing _ corpses.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, fixing Arthur with a stare you know colder than any frostbite. He swallows uncomfortably, Hosea quirking a brow at him. Micah finally comes to join the three of you, hands resting on his gaudy belt. 

“We’d like you to work for us.” Micah finishes. 

“Not  _ for _ us,  _ with _ us. We would be paying you for each erm… job.” 

The three of them look at you expectantly and you don’t flinch, teeth clenched as you consider their offer. ‘Repurposing’ bodies isn’t illegal but whatever they want to involve you in probably is. That being said, business is still slow and you could never turn down payment for something like this, something you  _ like _ to do. 

“What are you going to expect of me. I’d like specific details, please.”

Arthur’s face does something funny, like he’s trying to hide his excitement over the idea of you accepting their offer, the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes giving him away. 

“It won’t be anything you weren’t already doing. We need someone to..  _ Disappear _ some corpses every now and then and since you need em for.. Uh..”

“Medical research?”

Arthur visibly shudders. “Sure, whatever you want to call it, Moyniham,  _ research _ . Can we count on you?”

You consider it for a moment. The three of them stare at you expectantly. 

There is a risk here and you know it. Anything to do with these people is a risk, especially considering the way you were introduced. They seem to value you and your skills, though, something most people take for granted. Not a lot of people understand how valuable the knowledge you hold is, most folks assuming they could be fine with a few crooked stitches. Cowboy fools like these think the kind of  _ tomfoolery  _ they get into won’t hurt them until the second it does and by then, they’re already dead in the dirt.

Perhaps with you around they might avoid that. 

“Yes, alright. I’ll help you. But I want thirty five for every body.”

Yeah, that’s the effect you hoped for. As soon as your lips form the syllables, all three of them go wide eyed. You assume they didn’t think you’d be this demanding. 

“Oh to  _ hell _ with that. Thirty five? For what!” Micah snaps, finger pointing between your eyes, too close, too close. You feel your teeth creak as you clench your jaw, eyes narrowing as your brows furrow. “You ain’t doing nothing but playin’ with em! Thirty five my  _ ass _ .”

You assume he’s angered because the four of you know very well they could simply bury a dead body somewhere and be done with it. Men like these don’t need a  _ disposal operation _ . 

Hosea stands quickly, putting himself between you and Micah. “Now, mister Bell, we aren’t here to insult mister Moyniham.” His words are cultured but his tone is curt, sharp. Micah looks like smoke might come out of his ears and you feel like taking that finger off his hand at the knuckle, but you stand down. Micah steps back, making an offended sound before heading to the door. “Dutch ain’t gonna agree to that shit.” He mumbles, eyeing the three of you as he makes for the door.

“I apologize for him, Liam, Micah can be a bit too much for most people. We’ll have to ask Dutch about your price, but I’m sure it’ll go over fine. Thirty per body isn’t much to ask, considering the risk it puts you in.”

You breathe out slowly, your heart fluttering in your chest as your body tries to quell it’s unnatural response to stress. You clench and unclench your jaw a few times, feeling ruffled. “Yes, fine, alright. I won’t go lower than twenty, Hosea, let me make that clear. I am not a mortuary and I know very well the bodies you’re going to bring me won’t be accidental deaths.”

Hosea seems to accept that, nodding kindly. Arthur fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and after glancing at you, another. “Doc?” He asks, and you make a bad decision. 

You stopped smoking a while ago, too poor to bother spending money on arbitrary things. You’ve also seen enough black lungs to suspect that maybe everything the tabloids say about the  _ benefits of smoking _ is likely fake. 

You take the cigarette anyway. 

“Walk with us, would you?” Hosea asks as Arthur lights your cigarette. You nod, pulling hard on your smoke until your eyes water. You instinctively want to cough but you suppress the urge, letting the smoke drift blue out through your nose as you follow them out the door. 

“I don’t need an answer right away, but I would appreciate something by the end of the week.” You explain, mindful of the way the two of them walk on either side of you. Arthur is much larger than you and although Hosea is a little shorter, he still has to look down a bit to talk to you.

“I will do my damndest, mister Moyniham. We appreciate this.” 

The three of you find Micah around the corner with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, eyes fixed on some drunks stumbling down the sidewalk. “Well?” He asks sourly, not even looking at any of you. Arthur rolls his eyes and you flick the ash off your cigarette, deciding you don’t want to see Micah again if you can help it. “ _ Well _ , it looks like we’re in business.” Hosea supplies, fixing one of the buttons on his vest. 

Micah grunts, smoke filtering out of his mouth and nose in a way that makes you a little disgusted. “Good. Let’s get the rest of our chores done, then.” He pushes away from the wall, heading slowly toward the alley. Hosea trots after them, giving you a kindly smile and a  _ good evening, mister Moyniham _ .

“Be seein’ you.” Arthur chirps, eyes on Hosea and Micah as he hands you another cigarette, giving you a little salute. You offer your most personable smile and a little wave, waiting until the three of them have disappeared under the archway to head back home. It’s late and you know it, but you spend a long time just sitting in your office after that, holding your cigarette even after it’s almost burned down to your fingers and gone out. 

You’re well aware of the dangers these people pose to your lifestyle as well as your mortality but as the saying goes,  _ curiosity killed the cat- satisfaction brought him back _ . 

You’ve never needed thrills and adventure to be happy and you still don’t. You’re more interested in these people than what they spend their time doing.

That being said, you check the post every day for a letter and can’t help but wonder when they’ll be by again. 

****

When you were small, there was a time when your mother was the sun. She was bright, nurturing, from what you remember at least.

One day she was the sun, the next your entire world went dark. These things just happen. 

You don’t remember her dying, just that she became so small in the end. Her once warm hands held yours and felt skeletal, cold. Her red hair became dull and brittle. You were too young to understand what your father talked about with the doctor that came in every few days but you could pick up on their expressions.

One day she was the sun, the next she was a wooden box lowered into a long rectangular hole in the ground. 

If you had to guess, your dullness started there. Death at such a young age, you can’t imagine anything else that could have made you so.. unflinching. 

When you’d expressed an interest in medicine, your father had hated the idea. He’d felt the same way about you even starting school, being what you were. 

When you’d gone and done it anyway, well. 

It was a good thing you’d bought your ticket a week before for a boat charted far away, perhaps an attempt at the  _ American dream _ .

You can’t help that these things tend to keep you up at night, tonight being much the same. Sometimes the skin-peeling sensation of self doubt makes you wonder if you’ve gone and bought yourself a ticket to a wooden onesie instead of a brand new life far from the ghost of another. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> alright so this is entirely self indulgent! mr Moyniham is one of a few cowboy related characters of mine that I tweaked a little to fit my rdr needs :) this hasn't been properly beta read or anything so forgive any mistakes. I'm already started on the second chapter but I don't have any solid ideas for where I want this to go yet  
> please find me on twitter if ya like! @tacituskilgcre


End file.
